The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems Part 17

However well Sir Giles might sit, His sun was weak to wither it, Lord Miles's blood was dew on it: _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

Although my spear in splinters flew, From John's steel-coat, my eye was true; I wheel'd about, and cried for you, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

Yea, do not doubt my heart was good, Though my sword flew like rotten wood, To shout, although I scarcely stood, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

My hand was steady too, to take My axe from round my neck, and break John's steel-coat up for my love's sake.

_Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

When I stood in my tent again, Arming afresh, I felt a pain Take hold of me, I was so fain, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

To hear: _Honneur aux fils des preux!_ Right in my ears again, and shew The gilliflower blossom'd new.

_Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

The Sieur Guillaume against me came, His tabard bore three points of flame From a red heart: with little blame, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

Our tough spears crackled up like straw; He was the first to turn and draw His sword, that had nor speck nor flaw; _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

But I felt weaker than a maid, And my brain, dizzied and afraid, Within my helm a fierce tune play'd, _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

Until I thought of your dear head, Bow'd to the gilliflower bed, The yellow flowers stain'd with red; _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

Cras.h.!.+ how the swords met: _giroflee!_ The fierce tune in my helm would play, _La belle! la belle! jaune giroflee!

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

Once more the great swords met again: "_La belle! la belle!_" but who fell then?

Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down ten; _Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

And as with mazed and unarm'd face, Toward my own crown and the Queen's place, They led me at a gentle pace.

_Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

I almost saw your quiet head Bow'd o'er the gilliflower bed, The yellow flowers stain'd with red.

_Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee._

SHAMEFUL DEATH

There were four of us about that bed; The ma.s.s-priest knelt at the side, I and his mother stood at the head, Over his feet lay the bride; We were quite sure that he was dead, Though his eyes were open wide.

He did not die in the night, He did not die in the day, But in the morning twilight His spirit pa.s.s'd away, When neither sun nor moon was bright, And the trees were merely grey.

He was not slain with the sword, Knight's axe, or the knightly spear, Yet spoke he never a word After he came in here; I cut away the cord From the neck of my brother dear.

He did not strike one blow, For the recreants came behind, In a place where the hornbeams grow, A path right hard to find, For the hornbeam boughs swing so, That the twilight makes it blind.

They lighted a great torch then, When his arms were pinion'd fast, Sir John the knight of the Fen, Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, With knights threescore and ten, Hung brave Lord Hugh at last.

I am threescore and ten, And my hair is all turn'd grey, But I met Sir John of the Fen Long ago on a summer day, And am glad to think of the moment when I took his life away.

I am threescore and ten, And my strength is mostly pa.s.s'd, But long ago I and my men, When the sky was overcast, And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen, Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast.

And now, knights all of you, I pray you pray for Sir Hugh, A good knight and a true, And for Alice, his wife, pray too.

THE EVE OF CRECY

Gold on her head, and gold on her feet, And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet, And a golden girdle round my sweet; _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

Margaret's maids are fair to see, Freshly dress'd and pleasantly; Margaret's hair falls down to her knee; _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

If I were rich I would kiss her feet; I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet, And the golden girdle round my sweet: _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand; When the arriere-ban goes through the land, Six basnets under my pennon stand; _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

And many an one grins under his hood: Sir Lambert du Bois, with all his men good, Has neither food nor firewood; _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

If I were rich I would kiss her feet, And the golden girdle of my sweet, And thereabouts where the gold hems meet; _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

Yet even now it is good to think, While my few poor varlets grumble and drink In my desolate hall, where the fires sink, _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

Of Margaret sitting glorious there, In glory of gold and glory of hair, And glory of glorious face most fair; _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

Likewise to-night I make good cheer, Because this battle draweth near: For what have I to lose or fear?

_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

For, look you, my horse is good to prance A right fair measure in this war-dance, Before the eyes of Philip of France; _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

And sometime it may hap, perdie, While my new towers stand up three and three, And my hall gets painted fair to see, _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

That folks may say: Times change, by the rood, For Lambert, banneret of the wood, Has heaps of food and firewood; _Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite;_

And wonderful eyes, too, under the hood Of a damsel of right n.o.ble blood.

St. Ives, for Lambert of the Wood!

_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._

THE JUDGMENT OF G.o.d

Swerve to the left, son Roger, he said, When you catch his eyes through the helmet-slit, Swerve to the left, then out at his head, And the Lord G.o.d give you joy of it!

The blue owls on my father's hood Were a little dimm'd as I turn'd away; This giving up of blood for blood Will finish here somehow to-day.